Heating Sprouts Up A Dog’s Arse
I boiled eight potatoes in a pot of jam,
lifted them out one by one with a large
silver spoon when they were done
and washed them under a cold tap.
I rolled them onto two dinner plates
beside a couple of pork chops I’d fried in some coffee
and twenty sprouts I’d heated up the dog’s arse
for half an hour until al dente.
It was your mother’s recipe.
And just as I had everything plated up,
you knocked on my front door as arranged.
You were delighted I’d followed your Ma’s
instructions to the letter, the evening getting off
to a most auspicious start.
I didn’t think I’d eat the meal,
but surprised myself in your glowing presence
and swallowed the lot.
The Steam Of My Piss
for World Peace
after Marcel Duchamp
I spent two hours in the bitter cold
watching a football match
in Richmond Park.
I walked to the pub in pelting hailstones
and had three or four icy beers
with the lads in Donoghue’s of Inchicore,
when I went to the toilet and urinated,
steam came up, up, up off my piss
in a million or so small floating dodecahedrons.
It shouldn’t be warm at this stage
Especially when Pats have just lost
at home again.
It shouldn't be warm at all.
We’re hotblooded mammals
and the steam of our piss is proof positive
of man’s compassion
because we give the steam of our piss
away free gratis
every time we piss into the pot.
So let's all piss together and watch
the steam of our piss rise up
as one big mushroom cloud above us
and rejoice, rejoice
in man’s extraordinary benevolence
and every time
you see the steam of your piss rising,
close your eyes, please close your eyes,
and think of global warming,
and serial killers
and explain the significance
of the steam of your piss
to yourself again and again
softly in your head.
It’ll be alright.
Plank Over The Head
This bloke came up to me on the street
and handed me a plank. He said,
‘Hit me over the head with this plank mate, please.
I want it so bad.’
‘No way,’ I said. ‘What do you think I am?’
But somehow he convinced me to hit him
over the head with the plank.
Afterwards, he was in a bliss trance.
Like he was goofing on gear or something.
But he wasn’t. He was just enjoying
the pleasant aftermath of getting hit
on the head with a plank.
He gave the plank to me.
‘Go on mate, get someone to do it to you too.
You won’t regret it.’
I reluctantly took it and asked the next person
passing to hit me over the head with it. She did.
It hurt me very much.
I’d never do it again.
So I brought the plank home under my arm,
chopped it up into little fingers
and burned it to cinders.
Camillus John was bored and braised in Dublin. He has had work published in The Stinging Fly, RTÉ Ten, The Lonely Crowd, and other such organs. He would also like to mention that Pats won the FAI cup in 2014 after 62 miserable years of not winning it. He blogs at janeymackenstreet.wordpress.com .